


Great Minds...

by Berty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, And it's not just subtext, And you can't tell me otherwise, Bisexual John, But John hears it every time he speaks, But no mentions of Mary, Domestic Fluff - only with sex!, Early Mornings, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gay Sex, Gay Sherlock, Hudders is immortal and is Rosie's Gran substitute, M/M, Morning Sex, POV Alternating, Parenthood, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock hates the l word, Sleepy Sex, Slice of Life, Snatching twenty minutes before Monday happens to them, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:56:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14879348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: Meanwhile, it's just after sunrise on a Monday in central London, and in a quiet, darkened bedroom the world's only consulting detective and a former army doctor are sharing a quiet few minutes before the day starts in earnest.





	Great Minds...

Sherlock sighs as the lingering traces of a deep sleep leave him. He’s never been one for keeping regular hours - always blamed the nature of his work and insisted that the demands of his body were there to be defied. He was no slave to his transport. Sleep always seemed such a waste of valuable time and he begrudged every hour that his body stole from him for its recuperation.

  
Of course, these days it’s quite a different matter.

  
Now his revised domestic arrangements boast the added incentive of having John Watson in his bed, the hours seem to get away from him quite frequently.

  
He cracks an eye open and judges it to be a little before six a.m. from the subdued quality of the light filtering through the curtains. John keeps threatening to replace the thin, pale material with something ‘that actually keeps the room dark’. To be honest, Sherlock hadn’t really noticed. It’s all the same to him, he woke when woke and he slept when he had to.

  
Until John.

  
Speaking of…

  
It won’t be long before his bedmate begins to stir. It’s Monday morning and that means he has to go to that depressing ‘health’ centre and be kind and patient with people who aren’t Sherlock. He honestly doesn’t know why John bothers with it.

  
But if he’s is very clever (and was it ever in doubt?), he might be able to distract John enough wrest back a few more minutes with…

 

 

@@@

…the love of his life is stirring. He thinks he’s being terribly devious and outwitting poor pedestrian John again.

  
The love of his life – now isn’t that something?

  
As a teenager he thought that he and Ginger Spice might have had a shot at a happily forever after; he’d always had a thing for redheads. That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had something of a crush on Brad Pitt – he must have watched Seven every week for a year. But neither of them hold a candle to the lanky git whose breaths he can feel moving the hairs on the back of his neck.

  
John sighs, trying to keep his muscles loose and relaxed, and his breathing even. Sherlock might think he’s stealthy and full of cunning, but John knows him better than he knows himself. For instance, he knows that Sherlock would actually do anything for Mrs Hudson, despite being outrageously rude to her at every opportunity. He knows that Sherlock doesn’t often make the tea, not because he’s lazy, but because the novelty of someone caring for him enough to want to make him happy still hasn’t worn off. And he knows that Sherlock is so surprised to find himself in love with John that it scares him into thinking that he needs to trick him into a thing that John would give freely… happily, even.

  
So when Sherlock eases himself even closer to John in the grey dimness of the morning, adjusting his position carefully and quietly to make sure that he is exactly where he needs to be for the next stage of his plan, John’s lip twitch even as he wills his body not to betray him and let the world’s only consulting detective into the secret he’s been keeping these last few months; namely that he’s not even remotely…

 

@@@

…a deep sleeper. Honestly, how can John – a trained soldier and field hospital surgeon – think that’s he’s fooling Sherlock Holmes, the man who read his entire life history in a two-minute conversation the first time they met?

  
Still, it’s only six hours since they both fell deeply asleep after a rather enthusiastic coupling. Sherlock doesn’t even remember the most cursory of wipe-downs after a spectacular orgasm courtesy of John Watson whose body accommodates Sherlock’s as if it was hand tailored to meet his exact specifications.

  
That’s not, of course, to say that he doesn’t rather perfectly fulfil exactly the same specifications for the good doctor. Indeed, when John is in the throws of passion, he makes the most extraordinary claims about Sherlock’s arse and its perfection. He waxes positively poetic about the skin of his cheeks and the sweet, tight welcome of his…

  
Sherlock swallows and has to blink a few times to get himself back on track. An ache that is becoming wonderfully and unexpectedly familiar begins to spread through his abdomen and stiffen his already hopeful cock.

Now where was he?

Ah, yes.

  
He traces his fingers across John’s hip, too firm to tickle but too light to rouse the duplicitous doctor, if he is indeed in a state of semi-slumber.

  
John’s arse is a solid handful, soft short hairs rising to prickle against his palm as his fingers spread and reach into the heat between his cheeks. His hole is still slightly puffy from last night’s fucking, but John doesn’t pull away or grunt as Sherlock’s fingers slowly circle their prize. The easy glide and lack of resistance bode well for… ah, yes. John is still loosened and open from Sherlock’s cock finding its home right here last night and he cannot help but delight at the ease with which he presses two fingers into John’s hole, finding a welcome in the warm, slick embrace of…

 

@@@

  
…lube. Lots and lots of lube. Sherlock is a skilful lover but he’s well-endowed enough that John makes certain that he is sufficiently prepped so that if Sherlock’s trademark impatience comes into play during their fun, the experience will be more pleasurable than not.

  
For the first few weeks, Sherlock had insisted that John lead in their lovemaking. He had reasoned – quite correctly – that John had greater depth of knowledge in this, both from his medical training and from his wider sexual experience. John still believes that was a given, since he strongly suspects that Sherlock’s sexual experience was largely gleaned from textbooks. From the 1970s. With very few illustrations.

  
It took him a month to coax him out of calling his cock a phallus.

  
Seriously! Phallus!

  
If that’s not a word to deflate your aspirations he doesn’t know what is.

  
Since then Sherlock has gleefully embraced all vocabulary related to their mutual pleasure. He peppers it into his speech while they are going at it, often taking John by surprise with the depth of his new knowledge and the filthy things he can express with a few simple vocabulary additions.

  
Sherlock presses in with two straight away and John has to remind himself not to groan as the cool perfection of Sherlock’s fingers only serve to remind him of his body’s already urgent need to be filled. All too soon he withdraws and leaves him feeling empty and needy, but John has done this enough times to know that he just needs to be patient and…

  
There’s a quiet snick of a plastic cap being opened and a soft obscene squelch as Sherlock coats his cock. John can see it in his mind’s eye – Sherlock’s eyes falling shut as he closes his fist around himself, the way he bites his bottom lip as he strokes from root to tip, the way he holds his shaft as he guides his cockhead between John’s arse cheeks and the way he nudges his thigh between John’s to open him up a bit, lifting John’s right knee so he can sink…

 

@@@

  
…deep, deep, God, yes, but slowly. John shivers a little at the sensation and his breath hitches the tiniest bit before evening out again. Sherlock carefully wedges his thigh beneath John’s and plants his foot on the bed, holding John open to him. It means he cannot move so well, but this isn’t the goal of this morning’s activity.

  
Adjusting minutely, Sherlock presses in as deep as he can and relaxes, draping his arm over John’s waist, tracing the path of his soft, darker hair down to his goal which is already half hard and filling fast.

  
Taking John into his palm, Sherlock relishes the girth and heft of his cock and balls. He cannot decide which he loves more – to feel John rouse from being completely flaccid, cupping the soft warmth of him as he grows or finding him already aroused and ready for more. An embarrassment of riches.

  
With careful strokes, Sherlock shares what lube remains on his hand with John’s shaft. He explores all the differences in skin texture available to him with John’s propensity to sleeping nude – something he had been happy to be surprised by. Beneath the flannel and the vests and the cardigans, John is a true sensualist. He revels in Sherlock’s focussed attention and curious explorations. Sherlock has no idea why he ever assumed that John would be a reserved bedmate and is happy to have been proved utterly wrong in this one instance.

  
His gentle touches are quickly bringing John to full hardness, and while it is sweet torture to be held, warm and secure inside John’s body without taking his own pleasure, he is distracted by the rhythmic contractions of John’s internal muscles. Every twitch and clench causes an answering reaction in his own body. It feels wonderful, almost indescribable to have such freedom and access to another’s body. Some nights Sherlock can become quite wrapped up in the wonder of John, to the extent that John has to remind him of their purpose with a sharp nip of this teeth or a hissed, pleasure-filled whisper of his name.

  
Without a conscious command, Sherlock’s hips begin to rock, gently and slowly, not pushing for more, but delighting in their spiralling, mutual pleasure.

  
John sighs then, happiness and fulfilment, a sound that seems to hook directly behind Sherlock’s navel and pull him in closer.

  
As the sun continues its relentless climb into the sky pouring more light onto their bed, Sherlock smears kisses on his skin, joining up the pale freckles that adorn John’s shoulders. His mouth as soft as he can make it, Sherlock atones for the finger-shaped bruises that must be blooming on John’s hips from last night. He knows John revels in such possessive marks but Sherlock likes to balance each grasp and pinch with feathery strokes and whispering kisses.  
John hums at the touch and Sherlock feels it vibrate through his lips. He sucks gently at the nape of his neck and John arches his back, easing Sherlock deeper still.

  
It’s divine, this slow give and take, this shared exploration of cause and effect. He enjoys their post-case, too much adrenaline rutting and their need you now desperation, but this is something special.

  
His orgasm is a tangible impending event, he can feel it already begin to uncoil low in his belly, but there is no hurry, no urgency to it when they share like this. It’s why Sherlock loves to wake up early, like this. He hums his pleasure and…

 

@@@

  
… John moans. He likes this.

  
Sod pretending. Sod the ‘who is fooling who’ game. This feels fucking fantastic. Every time with Sherlock is different as the madman tries his latest scheme to make John lose his mind through lust, but the early morning, slow, sweet fuck when Sherlock had pounded him hard the night before is John’s favourite.

  
Nights like those are intense, treasured and memorable. They are a way of dispelling excess energy, a celebration of their unconventional life together, a shelter from the days that go bad and a declaration of their partnership – just them against the world.

  
But there’s an intimacy and a connection when they rock together just so. No competition, no observations – it’s at moments like this that John feels closest to Sherlock. There’s no one to impress, his mind isn’t spinning wildly with possibilities and theories – this is them, loving each other because it’s the only way that everything else makes sense.

  
Sherlock’s hips keep their smooth rhythm, pushing a little deeper. Sherlock’s fingers sweep the moisture from his leaking tip and find that beautiful spot, just beneath the crown. He rubs so perfectly, tiny circles with his thumb that make John shiver, moan and…

 

@@@

  
…he comes.

  
Smiling against his nape, Sherlock experiences John’s orgasm as a series of intense pulses, those captured in his palm and those deep within John’s body.

  
The wave that has been building within him swells, lifting him and sending him skyward. He gives in to the inevitability of its pull and is washed along in a rolling, breath stealing rush of sensation, so bright, so perfect and safe.

  
This, for Sherlock, is love. He abhors the saccharine, is suspicious of romance and derides those who have used the word love with too heavy a hand, cheapening and diluting its meaning and import. But this simple act, their wordless understanding and their perfect union fulfils a need in Sherlock that he has no words for and never expected to find within himself.

  
John is kissing the back of his sticky hand, sweeping his lips over the tendons and knuckles. He cradles Sherlock’s hand in both of his own, twining their fingers together.

  
Soon he will slip free of John’s body, but for now he is content to linger. Sherlock sighs and settles further into the pillows, burrowing himself a spot where he can press his nose to John’s hairline and breathe him in.

  
He hates to speak when it is unnecessary, but this is something that, although obvious, bears repeating.

  
“… John…”

 

@@@

  
“…I know. You’re an idiot.”

 

@@@

  
“…just so.”

  
Sherlock smiles as he presses one more kiss to John’s shoulder, so he will feel it.

  
In around thirty minutes, Rosie will wake and call for them. There will be shoes to find and breakfast to make and crimes to solve and housekeepers to insult. But right now his whole world is right here, sharing his bed and his work and his life.

  
Sherlock’s eyes slip shut and together they drift back to sleep.

 

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr (occasionally) at bertytravelsfar.tumblr.com


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